


Ghost Killer

by WolfVenom



Series: Hunting Hound Dogs (CoD:Ghosts) [1]
Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Abandonment, Blood and Gore, Brainwashing, Character Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emetophobia, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Major Character Injury, Memories, Memory Alteration, Mercy Killing, Non-Graphic Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Reunions, Torture, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 04:19:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18491215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfVenom/pseuds/WolfVenom
Summary: Rorke dragged him, kicking and screaming away from the safety of his brother, completely at the mercy of the savage ex-ghost.He would make the perfect Ghost Killer, Rorke knew. They would wipe them all out together.





	1. Rinse and Repeat

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read!! I'll go back and fix mistakes in the near future~ 
> 
> This little bitch has been stewing in my drafts for over a year now, so today I decided to sit down and finish it. Voila. Please heed the warnings.
> 
> This is part 1 of a series. Part 2 will be released soon.

The first few weeks hurt the most. 

 

Arm broken, slung up just good enough to set the bone but not to promote good healing, head throbbing and hunger pains shooting through his stomach. The sun beat down harshly at first, but when the rains came he opened his mouth and allowed water droplets to fill it, the only source of hydration he was even allowed. Logan thanked whatever power he could that it was called a rainforest for a reason.

 

His skin peeled from sunburn and insects bit him vigorously, maggots wriggling through dead tissue surrounding month-old lacerations, and he was sure bones were visible everywhere on his body with how skinny he was getting. By the third week he abandoned his pride and ate the plants that were provided, struggling through the agony lacing through his stomach as result and screaming into the night when his head pounded alongside his quickening heartbeat. Around the fourth he could move his arm without debilitating pain, though it never had the same range of motion it once did.

 

At the beginning he was stalwart about his condition. He believed Hesh would be coming for him with Merrick, that Keegan would grow worried and scour the earth for him. He missed Riley and he missed his dad even more, and the thought of being rescued cushioned his head against the hard dirt on most nights. He believed Rorke was the cause of all his suffering; that he would kill him once he escaped.

 

At three months in, he’s not so sure anymore. 

 

The pit was home at that point. There was a hole he had to dig and fill repeatedly for waste, a small area he excavated where he could sleep without getting wet or develop sunburn, and the poisonous vegetation they force fed him grew just over the bars where he could reach up and grab a few stalks when he needed. But the loneliness broke him. There were no animals which spared him any mind, no people to confide in. Logan missed the hug of his brother, the small kiss of his lover, long gone and he knew he was never coming back. Missed Riley’s slobbering and Merrick’s teasing. Hell, Logan was sure if Rorke showed up he wouldn’t decline the company.

 

Of course no one did show up. Ten months rolled on by. Solitude broke his mind and constant agony drilled him prone to any sort of relief. With nails scraped raw from all his attempted escapes, he was left with bloody fingers and nothing else to do except stew in his hatred. Hurt melted away until his mind lay blank, a mould ready to be shaped. Logan was sure he would die nothing but a vengeful memory, alone in the forests.

 

Until they picked him up.

 

A small squadron of masked soldiers lifted him from his prison, evaded his furious snapping and hog-tied him in the back of their truck, muzzled and blindfolded like a wild dog. Logan was too out of it to even care. The bumps in the road caused too-sharp edges to crush into the hard metal of the tailgate, eliciting a steady stream of pained growls from the once-soldier. He dare not doze off on the ride, hyper aware of the human presence surrounding him on all sides, the butt of a rifle nudging his shoulder warily to which he lurched against in response. But where one might expect jeers and idle queries from his audience, Logan Walker received nothing but silence. As if ghosts had collected his pitiful remains and were carting him off to Hell. 

 

Good riddance. 

 

What felt like hours to his body and mere heartbeats to his mind, the vehicle rolled to a stop upon a forty degree angle. One minute he was flat against the floor, and the next he was ushered through yards of endless hallways and forcefully seated in a dark room, as light was barren through the fabric of his blindfold. His strapped arms were pulled behind the head of the chair, bound in a separate length of rope to the ligature taught around his ankles, effectively securing him to the uncomfortable perch where his captors-- or were they his saviours…?-- left him be, and he stewed once again for hours in his own mind.

 

In the past, Logan usually would have found himself humming in amusement should he be caught in a similar situation such as this.

 

But now, all he did was sit, absolutely still, and absolutely silent. He waited nearly a year for an escape that would never come. What was another latched to a chair inside a murky basement? The harsh touches of anonymous men and the rude groping and the sting of being filled so abruptly were nothing compared to feeling nothing at all. They simply covered him up and strapped him back down.

 

Only a week later, the floor beneath his toes rumbled angrily, most likely in response to the heavy steel door being forced open, and an uncountable amount of footsteps entered his little sanctuary, the wild part of his brain all logic had vacated snarling furiously in response to these unknown assailants on his personal territory. Rough hands tore at the knot behind his head and the blindfold fell to his lap, allowing clouded eyes to see surroundings clearly for the first time in days. 

 

There were six figures in front of him; six soldiers clad in battle fatigues and faces covered with thick scarves and bulletproof sunglasses. The attire immediately fired warning signals in his brain, however, none of the frankly aggressive looking men seemed eager to turn violent, allowing L-- whoever the beast had become, to settle back in his seat. 

 

A seventh figure, more heavily built and eerily familiar in all the wrong ways approached from the left, less armored than the others yet threatening nonetheless. The ghost glared, eyes filled to the absolute brim with spite for reasons he couldn’t place. 

 

“Evening, soldier”, the stronger one said, voice a tad muffled behind the layers hiding his features, “enjoy your little vacation out there?”

 

Another snarl, deep from the belly so void of sustenance. The husk of Logan Walker gnashed his teeth behind the metal cage digging into his jaw, gut ablaze with unease. 

 

The man continued, sounding awfully nonchalant for the situation he was heralding. “Your name is Logan Walker. You used to work for the Ghosts as their leading Golden Boy, ring any bells?” He started pacing back and forth, menacingly, “I’m not here to hurt you, Logan. I just want to educate you on your past alliances and why everything you thought you knew was a complete and bold faced lie.

 

“The ones you thought you loved, who you believed loved you in return, don’t give two shits about your sorry ass.”

 

Logan mellowed under the tone, words not sinking in truly for some moments later. The man spoke with a calm voice, devoid of any raw emotion which made it so much easier to be lulled into his guaranteed security and yearn for his approval. It was the first contact he’d had in ages, and already he was salivating at the mouth not unlike an obedient dog. 

 

Logan watched with eyes slowly bleeding out of malevolence, coming to regard this grounding force with curiosity; appreciation. The man wrung his bare hands, littered with puckered white skin raised in bumpy ridges of morbid scarring, and stopped directly in front of his chair, gazing into his very soul.

 

“I’m here to help you, Logan. You’re scared, you’re hurt, you want to remember why you’re feeling this way, and I am the person who will tell you.” He laid a gentle palm on his shoulder, warmth piercing Logan’s near frozen frame.

 

The man reached into his jacket, pulling forth a crumpled mound of frayed stitching and cracked white face-paint. Upon patting out the dust, he unfolded it and bore the skull to his prisoner.

 

“You remember them?”

 

Inside Logan’s chest his heart buckled under the onslaught of emotion, a flurry of positive and negative memories warped by the passage of time, influenced by the year of agony. A whimper escaped his dry lips and he dared dart out a tongue to soften them.

 

Why would they let this happen to me?

 

“Because they couldn’t give a damn about you, kid.” Came the reply, almost as if he had spoken aloud. Judging by the newfound ache in his throat, he must have. 

 

“I’m not here to lie to you Logan. We’ve been at each other’s throats in the past, tried to kill each other too many times to count. But there’s a time where you gotta step back and see the facts of the situation.”

 

Dad is dead, Hesh is stranded somewhere, injured, Merrick miles away and no support would be coming. Keegan abandoned him. Riley was wounded, never to return to the field again, Ajax was dead and--

 

No…

 

Dad was killed for his own stupidity. He let himself get caught, he didn’t do anything to stop Logan from pulling the trigger, it was his fault he joined the fucking Ghosts and died for it. Hesh never saw him as equal, always the baby brother he had to protect and coddle, he only saw their objective, never him and his needs. His lover left them all when they needed him, Logan most of all, when he was vulnerable and hurting and needed a warm body to confide in at night to chase the horror away with gentle touches. His team let Riley get shot, left him to carry him crying to extraction amidst a gun-fight, didn’t think of how it would affect the poor dog in the long run; probably got rid of him since he’s not of use anymore. Ajax killed himself and--

 

“That’s it, boy. You understand now, huh?” That voice permeated the cloud of his own dangerous thoughts. “It took me a while to understand too, don’t worry. We’re kindred spirits, you and I, both abandoned by those we thought we could trust, betrayed and dumped in the middle of nowhere with no one to come and save us. They couldn’t spare mind or men for our sorry asses. But we can. We can let them know how it feels to be forgotten.” 

 

Logan purred under the ideas of it all, the revenge he would exact, the blood that would warm his permanently chilled flesh, the hurt he could let out with every push of the knife. 

 

Behind him, foreign hands unlatched the muzzle caging his jaw, and he flexed its newfound freedom eagerly, eyes not leaving the person before him. 

 

“I understand, Rorke”, Logan growled, “I understand everything now.”

 

Rorke smiled beneath the scarf, unravelling it to reveal his achingly familiar features, once sparking hatred, now his only saviour. Because in the end it wasn’t Rorke who tossed him in the jungle, who ruined his life and birthed him into a land of war and pain. It was his family: the Ghosts, his lover, the people he thought he could trust. If they truly cared for him, he wouldn’t have been taken in the first place.

 

“Good. Now let’s get those damn things off you and get you a proper change of clothes. We have Ghosts to hunt.”


	2. Rebirth

The comforting grip of an M9 was a welcome reprise in the following weeks. When Logan wasn’t busy working out in the training grounds to gain back his lost muscle mass, he was stowed away in the Federation firing range, re-familiarizing himself with the many different brands of weapons provided. His preferred loadout still remained a scuffed pistol and tactical knife, but fiddling around with the odd sniper or LMG never hurt anyone. None of the Federation soldiers spared him any looks, none attempting to strike up conversation or throwing rude glances. And he was welcome for the solitude. All he needed was a steady and rigorous workout routine, and his regular meetings with Rorke.

 

It turned out that the Ghosts were indeed still operating even after its significant losses, Merrick still running ship, and Hesh mended up and manning the ground team. The information got Logan seething. Of course his prided elder brother would get rescued and promoted. Of course he would still dedicate every waking hour to being a good little soldier boy.

 

It wasn’t like Rorke was feeding his growing loathing of his former allies. If anything, he reminded him more of all the _good_ times he surely shared with them, which only served to fuel his undying contempt. If not for their hand in causing his suffering, then surely for sitting idly by and just letting it happen.

 

When he was focused on hitting targets in the range, it was easier to forget the more tender memories, or to warp them into something more bearable, to stop the heartache he did not need. No distractions. _But when he thought of those dark nights, thunder rolling around in the skies outside and rain battering the windows, Riley curled up in his lap and snoring softly in his sleep, and Keegan pressed against his back watching the muted television, the pain simply mounted. It formed a murky coalescence beneath the pit of his stomach, continuously growing and feeding off of his every emotion, coiling tightly in his most vulnerable places._

 

It helped to simply replace the comfortable chest behind him with stone cold walls of dirt, caging him in on all four sides and the weight on his thighs now his own rancid vomit, all reminding him that no one really cared in the first place.

 

Furious repeated clicking noises tore him from his thoughts violently, tossing him back into the present. All fifteen shots had been emptied from the magazine of his gun and formed an ugly steaming hole in the target in front of him, burning like the fire behind his eyes.

 

Logan sniffled roughly, wiping sweat from his chin with the back of a hand before releasing the mag with a single trigger and tossing it haphazardly to the bench at his right. Mind gloriously blank after the whole nostalgic fit, he pulled another from his belt and loaded up the pistol for another round, choosing a separate training dummy to focus his ire.

 

With his weight returned to almost tip-top shape, he certainly was feeling a lot more like himself physically. His arms and legs bulked with thick cords of muscle and his waist was a lot less narrow and more filled. There was a soft spot on his belly where the only fat he accumulated resided, but the bumps of his abs nearly dwarfed it entirely. Logan had hardly even touched a razor since his initial cleanup after accepting Rorke’s help, trimming the mess down to a manageable five o’clock shadow and allowing it to grow out handsomely thereafter.

 

He thought himself nearly unrecognizable to the baby-faced _sergeant_ he was before Rorke shaped him up. And in a way, it was true.

 

After five months of training, building their operations from off the grid and planning their infiltration scheme, Logan was no longer Logan. He was just _Eagle 6-1_ now, a mockery at his former life, a tribute to the man inside he killed and now puppeted around like some twisted ventriloquist.

 

His boots created menacing thumps along the tiled floor as he stalked the hallway, flanked by two underlings he had hailed for the mission ahead. His path drove him to the briefing room, a shoddy old mess more rot than wood and supported only by flimsy rubble. Rorke and a smattering of other soldiers stood poring over asset information spread out over the table before them, spines all curved in concentration and voices firm.

 

 _Eagle 6-1_ approached in silence, ignoring his two stragglers as they joined up with the masses. His hair, more _dead-sunflower_ than the blond it used to be, poked out in dishevelled strands beneath his ball cap, a dirty shawl draped across the bridge of his nose and leaving only dark brown pools of _hate_ to peer out of the amalgamation of black clothing.

 

“Glad you could join us, kid. Care for a debrief or should we dispatch _ay-sap_?” Rorke asked, brow raised in question and arms folded neatly across his bulging chest. His usual getup graced his frame, durag wrapped taught across his skull, combat gear strapped across any body part available, and that same apathetic look on his face.

 

 _Eagle 6-1_ grimaced. “Give it to me in transport.” He muttered, before turning heel and making his way to the loading zone. Behind him, Rorke grinned, chuckling under his breath, before rallying his men and taking off after his new and improved greatest weapon.

 

A caravan of APC’s and the odd humvee carried the troop of Federation men and their two ex-Ghosts to their LZ. The convoy trekked through dense jungle and an oddly placed mountain range, before breaching what was once civilized land nearly twenty-four hours later. Under the cover of nighttime, they abandoned ship and left their dedicated drivers to make way to the rallying point. From there on out it was a mission on foot, infiltrate and initiate.

 

Keeping up the rear, _Eagle 6-1_ took a moment to regard the moth-eaten balaclava in his hand, eyeing the fissures weaving across the greyed dye with distaste. Rorke had told him that this was a simple breach mission. They had received word that the Ghosts were making camp at an old military base in the area to scout out nearby resupply opportunities, and intercepting their radio had revealed that a large number of high-ranking Ghosts were participating in the search and secure.

 

So, they assembled a small stealth team, and boarded up to ambush them before they arrived.

 

 _Eagle 6-1_ pursed his lips behind his scarf, gloved hands gripping the mask tightly and tearing the weary seams. It still smelled like him, too.

 

_Good riddance._

 

He dropped the relic carelessly, grinding it into the mud with the heel of his boot until the prominent skull was near invisible, and upped the pace to rejoin his squad. Those fucking Ghosts would be making their way through within the next forty eight hours, and they needed to make it to the AOE before they did.

 

The Feds had an entire day to set up operations at the target location. At dawn the ruins of the old base breached the horizon, and by dinnertime that day they had made small camp in the woods nearby to prepare for contact. _Eagle 6-1_ skimmed the edges of the bustle the entire time, eating by himself, sleeping by himself, and sitting by himself. Rorke continuously eyed him and his behaviour throughout, but _Eagle 6-1_ shrugged off his burning gaze and propped the crinkled old pornography magazine he picked up over his eyes to settle in for a quick nap. His ETA was a few hours away, anyway.

 

His dreams were brief, but sharp nonetheless. He saw flickers of thunderclouds, felt the heat of sex in his groin and the joys of tossing a tennis ball halfway across a field and receiving it at his feet only seconds later. At first the feelings garnered _adoration,_ the wanting to be regarded with fondness and a gentle heart. But when he thought about them, more deeply than he usually would have, they sparked nothing but indignation. He cursed the stormy skies, felt repulsed by the innate need coursing through his body by the primal pleasures, and wanted that damned ball to simply disappear into the distance for good.

 

So when he was roused awake by an urgent and unknown hand jostling his back, _Eagle 6-1_ hissed and swatted the offending appendage away in anger, fulminating openly at the gesture. The only touch he desired now was rough; the cold bite of agony, filled with hatred and sharing insurmountable pain from body to body. Keegan’s once-benign embrace now chilled his spine, _Eagle 6-1_ finding his comfort rather in much more familiar anguish. Distress was a welcome bed-partner these days.

 

Grumbling to himself, _Eagle 6-1_ stood and popped his back with an audible crack, checking his armament briefly before getting low and searching the crowd of nearly unseen bodies for his commander. The mass had already begun to file through the thick brush, campfire doused and all traces eradicated from their pitstop. He simply followed, inching ever closer to the frontline, and kept all five senses on the wild around him.

 

Truck engines roared in the distance, the odd demanding shout accompanying the annoying ruckus, and _Eagle 6-1_ shared a glance with Rorke now-beside him. A few klicks to the west, it seemed. In ten minutes they would reach the base.

 

With efficient stealth, the group managed to rush into the rubble of the old camp and stow themselves in various nooks and crannies provided. _Eagle 6-1_ chose a small crevasse between a large chunk of fallen wall and the banged-up garage door near the entrance, wishing to be the first into the fray once the fight started. Thankfully he had decided to don a simple, snug-fitting beanie and his prosaic and mundane scarf. _Typical._ But anything was better than using a face mask. No longer would he be bound by a balaclava; he would hunt the symbol down to the ends of the earth until no Ghost remained.

 

Engines rumbled the ground violently as their targets rapidly approached, vehicles fanning out in a neat eight-wide line and numerous infantrymen pooling from the trucks, weapons all at ready and orders already being issued. His prey scouted the area, scouts and snipers checking out the underbrush nearby for traps and enemies, whilst the foot soldiers etched their way cautiously towards the building.

 

“ _Breach and clear, men!”_ The shout rang too loud in his head, prompting a wince.

 

_Merrick._

 

So the bastard actually joined in on the little party. _Eagle 6-1_ split his tongue beneath his incisors, blood quenching his thirst for brutality.

 

Rorke’s command echoed in his ears, _don’t attack until their commander is in line of sight!,_ but _Eagle 6-1_ was filled to the brim and near-bursting with unbridled _fury._

 

_Them._

 

_They did this to me._

 

_They watched as I was ripped away and tortured, fucked into the jungle floor against my will and bled under their lit cigarettes._

 

_Didn’t lift a finger._

 

 _Didn’t come and_ save me…

 

He howled violently, bursting from cover to the sound of Rorke’s hushed cursing, and leapt at the nearest enemy, plunging his dagger into their throat and tearing the jagged edge through the meat it impaled itself in. Hot, sticky _wet_ drenched his front, excitement buzzing at the back of his skull, and without a care for the body he dropped into the dirt, pulled the M16 off his back, and opened fire.

 

From then on out, anarchy took hold.

 

The man-turned-weapon ripped his way through numerous bodies, all insignificant and puny. His teammates refused to go near him, for they knew he would not care _who_ he dug his claws into, he’d gut them all the same. A bullet grazed his hip and he snapped, whipping his head around and locking onto the skinny looking recruit who dared try and prevent him from getting his deserved _revenge,_ and snuffed the insect before they even had the chance to defend themself.

 

Following that single wound, his body was soon riddled with bullets and lacerations. None too fatal, but bleeding sure was not a fun way to go down in battle. _Eagle 6-1_ didn’t care. Teeming with adrenaline and the desire to inflict hurt, he wiped out a total of nine soldiers before they began to actually put up a fight.

 

Sounds of death and gore drowned into the background as he tussled with his newest target, the alluring tune of throats collapsing and entrails spilling fading peacefully. _Eagle 6-1_ sized up his foe, dodged the swipe to his shoulder, and grappled the man by latching onto his back and shoving him into his knee.

 

Of course, it never _was_ that easy. This was an actual, fully-fledged _Ghost_ in his hands. The battle was both in favour and against them simultaneously.

 

But should he be destined to go down, he thought as his opponent buried his blade in his calf, he wouldn’t do so without a _fight._

 

Sweat collected under his arms and down his back, _Eagle 6-1_ driving a fist home into the soldier’s groin and seizing the distraction to bring his elbow across the fucker’s cheek, relishing in the creak of bone under his bombardment.

 

“ _Fuck!”_ the Ghost swore, shaking his head and spraying _Eagle 6-1_ with droplets of blood.

 

He retaliated quickly, lunging with brute force into _Eagle 6-1_ and bowling him off his feet. They rolled thrice in the mud before coming to a stop, Ghost atop Fed, and punches flew. The masked soldier struggled tooth and nail to keep the upper hand, slamming the heel of his palm into the weasel’s nose, and blocked a hit to his chest in return. _Eagle 6-1_ wriggled his hips, trying to toss his assailant to the ground, but his attempt was dissuaded as the Ghost grabbed onto his scarf and lifted his head at a harsh angle, only to bring it crashing down against the stony ground with a sickening _crunch_ and a debilitating wave of nausea.

 

But the Ghost didn’t stop there. Realizing the influence of his advance, he repeated the motion five more times before his death grip on the ratty shawl rended it into jagged pieces. _Eagle 6-1_ fought to breathe under the damage, blood filling his airways faster than it spilled from his nose and mouth, but that _defiance_ still shone bright in his chestnut eyes. Down, but not out.

 

Ready to finish it off once and for all, the Ghost pulled his hand back one last time, cocking his fist in preparation to snap the bastard’s neck with a final hit, but the scarf clung to his ripped gloves and the movement peeled the bloody ribbons from the Fed’s face--

 

\--From _Logan’s_ face…

  
  


 

Hesh simply stared, body locked up in shock.


	3. The Mortician's Macabre

“ _ Logan… Y-You’re alive…? _ ”

 

Hesh’s grip on his throat lessened in steady increments. Spite rose like bile at the back of his mouth but  _ Logan  _ swallowed it back down, maintained his expression, let tension wash from his back to ease his  _ brother  _ into a false sense of security.

 

“We-we looked everywhere for you! We tried everything--”

 

Logan--  _ Eagle 6-1, damn you--  _ Bucked up against the lax hold forcing him down, and threw Hesh to the grass a few feet away with a noise of surprise. As he clambered to his feet his vision swam aggressively, nearly sending him staggering right back to the ground, but utilizing sheer willpower held him up on two legs.

 

Blood dripped in a steady line down his chin, pouring in grotesque globs from his nose and in thick ropes of pink spittle from his mouth as he panted heavily, but the defiance in his eyes held strong despite the obvious suffering. 

 

Hesh looked pained. “ _ Lo,  _ what is  _ wrong with you? _ ” His voice was barely a whisper, but Logan heard it as clear as day. His resentment bubbled.

 

“What’s wrong with  _ me?!”  _ He shouted, hostility cloaking his hurt, “with  _ me,  _ David?! I don’t know, maybe the  _ weeks  _ of torture stranded alone in a remote jungle with nothing to eat but  _ worms?”  _

 

But once he started, he couldn’t stop. The world just… Paused around him. 

 

“You watched them drag me away and you did nothing but scream my name. Instead of looking for me you pranced around with your little  _ Ghost  _ friends and cozied up to Merrick looking to be spoiled and brandished like a trophy! While I slept with my head in the dirt and my flesh rotting against my bones you drowned in your morphine shots and warm blankets and pretended everything was all right. Nothing  _ happened  _ to me, David. I just realized how much of a fucking  _ liar  _ you all were.”

 

Logan wailed and barrelled as hard as he could into the sufficiently paralyzed Ghost, effectively sending them both back to the floor where rules lay forgotten. Logan bared his teeth, clawed at bare skin and gouged at eyes with his thumbs, but his advances were thwarted each time, and the fact that they were simply blocked and not countered boiled him alive. 

 

_ “You all abandoned me! Left me to be tortured and raped and wish for death without knowing where or who I was!”  _ His punch was deflected.

 

“ _ Keegan turned tail and fled with his tail between his legs because he couldn’t stand the thought of  _ us  _ any longer!”  _ A hit fell wide as Hesh dodged. 

 

_ “You left Riley to  _ die  _ without considering how disastrous it was for a dog who had known only war to be house-ridden for the rest of his life!”  _ An elbow jabbed under his chin stopped him from tearing skin with teeth. 

 

“It was not  _ me,  _ David. There was never anything wrong with  _ me.  _ It was all.  _ You _ .”

 

This time he didn’t miss. 

 

Logan managed to dig his knife out of the soil in the skirmish, raising it high overhead with the full intent to sink it into the inviting pink flesh of his brother’s chest, and brought it down hard.

 

The gunshot silenced everything.

 

Gone was the fervent rushing of blood in his ears. Gone was the sickness roiling in his belly. Gone was the hurt pulling it’s mask over his eyes. Gone was the war, and the loss, and the pain and the love and laughter and joy and  _ life-- _

 

His eyes drifted down, fully intending to see Hesh, heart carved open. But all he saw was his knife, devoid of filth and lying useless to his side, and a hole cleaved clean through his chest.

 

_ Merrick… _

 

There was a feeling of cold for a long while, a breath in time where everything stood still and hearts didn’t beat. Logically, Logan realized, that shock was a bitch of a drug.

 

Like a radio slowly regaining its signal, feeling crept back into his body with static. His stomach curled in on itself, aware of the pain even before his nerves were, and red bloomed beneath his ribs faster than what he was comfortable with.  _ His pancreas was useless. His spine was surely shattered from the impact; he felt nothing below his waist. An artery had burst, there was fluid spilling into his body that shouldn’t be there but he couldn’t-- _

 

The resounding thump turned out to be Logan’s head as he fell back, slamming into the ground with enough force to cause a choked scream to make its way out of his throat. Everything around him was blurred, a voice weeping lament, something warm and moist trying to clean around his face, a warm body being pressed against his unfeeling back. 

 

A hand he couldn’t identify carded through his unruly hair, uncaring of the grime. A weight he couldn’t place settled across his legs, careful of the wounds. A voice he didn’t recognize screamed in the distance, hollow and grieving. It was like he was floating, an omniscient being watching the scene from above, unable to provoke a single feeling from the ordeal. His own body felt foreign, the tremble of his lips and the ragged huffs of his chest out of his control. 

 

_ “He was going to kill you, Hesh. Your brother was already dead. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I had to do it.”  _

 

_ Damn right I would have… _

 

Riley’s fur burst into sense, soothing against his quivering fingertips, and with sudden clarity Logan was reminded of his youth, grasping for his beloved blanket at the age of six and crying into the faded green cotton while he nudged his dad awake. 

 

Reminded of clutching Keegan’s shirt while he hugged him, sobbing against his neck as tremors wracked his body while the nightmares slipped away.

 

Reminded of the fond scrape of Hesh’s knuckles in his hair as he fought to be freed of his playful chokehold.

 

Reminded of feeling  **_loved_ ** _ \-- _

  
  
  
  


Then, there was  _ nothing _ . 

  
  
  
  
  


_...Good riddance… _


End file.
